


the world and all its gold

by synthehol_king



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: M/M, One Shot, kira/odo makes quark miserable, quark/vic if you squint, season 7, unrequited quodo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-10 15:18:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19907863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/synthehol_king/pseuds/synthehol_king
Summary: Vic Fontaine might be the only person on the station that Quark can truly relate to. He's also the cause of most of Quark's current problems. And a hologram.





	the world and all its gold

**Author's Note:**

> song they're referring to: "You're Nobody Till Somebody Loves You" - Dean Martin [[link]](https://youtu.be/LJwZcfREQiU)
> 
> cw: lots of unrequited love and sad quark feelings throughout
> 
>   
> set in early season 7
> 
> so this started out as a small piece for my rarepair [collection](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19664641) , but then it turned into something a little too long and a little too ambiguous to really work there. I am planning on putting something more overt there later so if you like these two interacting i'd love if you'd check it out!
> 
> rated t because there's a bit of a dirty joke here and there, but nothing too overt

"You don’t really believe that?"

"Believe what?" Vic replied, wearing the same innocent, oblivious smile that Quark practiced in the mirror every morning. He looked uncharacteristically casual, though the only change in his attire was that his tie hung loosely around his neck. That was the thing about making a career out of wearing a tuxedo – any change in formality and you may as well be naked. He was leaning back in his seat across from Quark, one arm tucked behind the back of his chair and resting his opposite wrist on the table, twisting a cocktail umbrella between his fingers. The club was empty around them, but the music from the player piano Vic had left running was keeping them company.

“That song. The last one you sang tonight,” Quark answered, cracking open the shell of a peanut without looking up. He’d only come in for the last few numbers, but he always stayed for an hour or two after last call on the rare occasions he could get a night to himself (and Vic could convince him to spent it in the holosuite). And while conversation wasn’t typically the thing he sought out a hologram for, he had to admit that it was nice to have someone to commiserate with after a long shift who actually knew what he was going through.

“Pally, I believe in every song I sing,” Vic replied, pausing to take a sip of his drink. “While I’m singing them. But I’m gonna need a bit more of a reminder of which one we’re talking about here.”

Quark smirked. “The one about what a pair of nobodies the two of us are, apparently.”

“Oh,” Vic wiped a hand across his mouth, answering around another sip of his drink. “Dean Martin, gotcha. What do you mean, the two of us? I don’t recall naming names.”

“Last I checked, neither of us have somebody loving us, currently speaking,” Quark said bluntly, still smirking. Despite his criticism, he could admit he appreciated the straight-forwardness of the lyrics of Vic’s repetoire. There was no riddle or intrigue to be solved – just plain, simple emotion, laid out on the table. It left little room for a muddled interpretation. 

“Check again; everyone loves me,” Vic laughed. He sighed, drawing himself closer to the table. “And I wouldn’t exactly call you unpopular around here. Frankly, I wouldn’t mind if you were a little less popular – whenever your friends come in here and talk about ‘going back to Quark’s,’ I end up losing customers who wanna check out this ‘new bar’ everyone keeps talking about.”

“I make no apologies for good customer service.” Quark took a sip from his own glass, savoring the bitter aftertaste with a frown.

Vic noticed, playfully rolling his eyes. Nobody, even another bartender, knew how to open up to anyone other than the guy serving them drinks. “You know as well as I do that last call means the doctor is out, but alright. I’ll bite. What’s on your mind, kid?”

Quark sighed dramatically, staring at the piano as it plunked out an endless melody from the corner of the stage. He was silent for a few moments. It wasn’t an uncommon sight; Vic was far more familiar with the quiet, after-hours side of Quark than the boisterous, talkative host the rest of the station knew.

“Do you have any idea how difficult it used to be to move contraband on this station?” Quark said suddenly, snapping his head back to face Vic. His voice climbed in tone with growing irritation. “I mean, I could _do_ it, of course, but not easily. And yet in the span of a month, I’ve sold more Romulan ale than I have synthehol.”

“My condolences,” Vic soothed, affecting his most sincere expression.

“And it’s not like I’m being particularly careful, either,” Quark ranted. “I sent Morn out onto the promenade with a to-go cup. And what does our brilliant chief of security do? Not even so much as a citation. He comes in, for the first time in _week_ , with a _friendly_ warning.”

Quark swallowed down the remains of his drink, wincing and scowling with enough venom to peel paint. Vic couldn’t help but give a sympathetic wince himself.

“So I take it the lovebirds are settling in nicely, hmm?” Vic suggested. He supposed he deserved the flash of a dirty look thrown his way in response.

“Thank you so much for that, by the way,” Quark noted, voice dripping with sarcasm. “I do so love it when my problems are resolved with bigger problems.”

“Am I missing something here? Friend, I fail to see how having the heat off your tail is a problem.” 

Quark’s scowl remained unchanged. Vic’s “playing dumb” routine might have been more effective on someone who wasn’t particularly fond of using it himself. 

“Unless…” Vic proposed, slowly. “That _is_ the problem…”

“Oh, would you knock it off,” Quark retorted. “This is entirely your fault in the first place, you know.”

“Now you’re blaming _me_ for your problems?” Vic laughed. “Quark, I think you need to talk to somebody about this ‘projecting’ thing of yours.”

“Would you stop that? Don’t think I don’t know,” Quark gripped. “It’s not like Odo was going to figure out how to win Kira over on his own.” He further hunched his shoulders, scowling at the table with his arms folded on the table. “A distracted Odo means competition from everyone and their brother on the promenade. So now what’ve I got? A stockroom full of problems and contraband that’s more trouble than it’s worth to store.”

He looked absolutely miserable, and in spite of himself, Vic felt a genuine pang of sympathy somewhere deep in his coding. Like it or not, Quark was a man after’s Vic’s own heart. Maybe it was a mutual respect for someone in the same line of work; maybe he just loved rooting for the underdog. Either way, he liked him. And he hated to see someone he liked looking so down.

“You know, I never really liked that song,” Vic said after a few moments, looking into his glass contemplatively. “Not really my best choice for a closing number, I suppose. Then again, maybe it’s not the first bad choice I’ve made in this club.”

Vic sighed, setting down his glass. He clapped his hand down mildly over Quark’s arm. He smiled sympathetically. “What I’m saying is – maybe some people take a little too much advice from songs written by a bunch of dead guys, performed by a hologram.”

Quark blinked, then sheepishly returned the smile with a nod. 

“Yeah. Maybe some people do.”


End file.
